Carson stayed busy getting acquainted with the lodge grounds, the trails, the storage shed, and, unfortunately, the residents who were far too determined to welcome him into the fold. Buttercup Lake loved newcomers. Buttercup Lake especially loved newcomers who had jawlines strong enough to cut fishing line.
My sisters took him around the lodge; my dad introduced him to the snowmobile shed; Beck roped him into helping sand down a canoe; and Violet brought him a bag full of bakery goods.My mom gifted him a hand-knit scarf, as if he had moved here permanently rather than for a seasonal contract.
Meanwhile, I stayed out of his way.
Strategically.
Intentionally.
Heroically.
Whenever I caught a glimpse of him walking by the lodge windows or heading down the path toward the equipment shed, I made myself busy in the opposite direction. I stacked towels. I labeled spice jars. I color-coded trail maps. I reshelved books in the library alphabetically, then by color, followed by mood.
Because I had decided something very important:
For the sake of my sanity, my dignity, and the continued existence of my emotional barriers, it would be best if I did not interact with Carson Reed unless absolutely necessary.
Less Carson meant fewer opportunities to blurt something humiliating.
Less Carson meant fewer cave fantasies I absolutely was not having.
Less Carson meant fewer chances to notice whether he wore boxers or briefs.
Which I was not wondering.
Definitely not.
Not even a little.
Okay, maybe a little.
But I wasn’t going toask, which meant avoidance was the responsible, mature, and perfectly healthy option.
He needed time to settle in. I needed time to remember how to be a functioning adult human.
It was a win-win.
Except the problem with staying away from Carson was that everything on lodge property wanted to drag me right back into his orbit, including the rescue animals.
Our lodge had its own small collection of rescued residents, which usually meant animals too quirky for some people’s idea of a good companion, which I felt was hogwash.
We had a couple of goats, a potbelly pig named Oatmeal, some llamas I try not to annoy, and a rooster with a personality disorder. But, most notoriously, a zebra named Barcode. And that was just to name a few.
But Barcode was a menace.
The striped fellow was adorable… don’t get me wrong, small for a zebra, big brown eyes, long ears, soft muzzle, but Barcode’s personality was seventy percent mischief and thirty percent calculated escape artistry. If Houdini had hooves, this would be Barcode.
Which brought me to Friday morning as I marched across the snowy paddock to find Barcode standing in the wrong enclosure.
Again.
“Barcode,” I warned, “I swear if you hopped the fence again—”
He blinked at me with innocent zebra betrayal.
“I can see your hoofprints. Don’t pretend. You’re living a life of crime.”
He snorted and swished his tail.
